


Surgeon Rick Likes 'em Thick

by KLaxAddict



Category: Pocket Mortys, Rick and Morty
Genre: (kinda), Body Worship, Feeding Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Medical Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 09:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13587432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KLaxAddict/pseuds/KLaxAddict
Summary: Surgeon Rick takes in and fixes up a Morty from a Rick that the kid really doesn't deserve.





	Surgeon Rick Likes 'em Thick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The-Clairvoyant-Rick (MajixTrixx)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajixTrixx/gifts).



> This is a short ficlet I wrote for @the-clairvoyant-rick when I called for prompts on Tumblr. I'm posting it here alone by request.

Surgeon Rick does not like Rick L-310.

He’s frankly a shitty trainer, and his attitude is not improved by the fact he’s usually broke and pissed after betting whatever cash he manages to scrounge up on his own fights and losing. He drags a constantly rotating collection of the most vulnerable, low-level Mortys to the Med Center and demands Surgeon Rick heal them up to get their asses kicked according to his worthless directions again, often before re-abandoning them or dumping them in the wilderness again. Storage Rick refuses to accept his Mortys anymore, all they do is cry and most of the time he never bothers to come back for them.

Today he’s brought yet another Scruffy Morty for his initial physical and registration. Surgeon Rick frowns as he scans the kid for his dimensional stats.

Morty B-812, Original Rick listed as deceased eight months ago, didn’t qualify for academy retraining and refused relocation to Mortytown. He has the usual slightly feral, wary look of most Scruffy Mortys, but Rick is far more concerned with his physical condition at the moment.

He weighs less than a hundred pounds, and his ribs are showing beneath his ripped t-shirt. The Manipulator chip was shoddily installed, and bulges under his sunken eye-socket. He’s on the verge of developing serious malnutrition and vitamin deficiencies, and just looking at him makes Rick’s stomach growl and his teeth grind.

“He’s got Septicemic Golizan Flu,” he informs L-310 in a bored monotone, printing off a claim ticket and handing it to him “I’m going to need to keep him for twenty-four hours to administer the antivirus and make sure he’s not infectious.”

Rick L-310 looks pissed beyond reason at the inconvenience. No doubt he’s scheduled for some back alley brawl that requires a full contingent of Mortys today.

“Fucking seriously? Twenty-four hours? You can fix a busted pelvis in an hour, why the fuck do you need so long?”

Eyes flashing, Surgeon Rick practically growls. “Oh, I’m sorry, is the free medical clinic you’ve used forty-seven fucking times this month not good enough for you?”

L-310 mutters under his breath but snatches the claim ticket out of Surgeon Rick’s hand, storming off in the direction of the communal portal. Surgeon Rick watches him go with a sneer.

The Scruffy Morty is still vertically strapped to the examining table, and Surgeon Rick double checks the restraints as he removes the botched Manipulator chip. Morty whimpers as he manages to extract it, but he doesn’t seem excessively feral or even aggressive. Jesus, did L-310 even have to anything other than breathe on this Morty to chip him? The bruises on his face and chest definitely say he had, either way.

Chucking the chip in a petrie dish with a clink, Rick sets to work cutting away the tattered yellow t-shirt. He has a hundred more in the back. He’ll have to replace the chip properly later, the laws are clear, but fuck if this kid doesn’t deserve a break between the dimensional wilds and a piece of Rick-trash like L-310. The Morty shivers at the cold air of the Med Center, but Rick shushes him as he cleans his arm to insert an IV drip.

He sets up a rapid-absorption saline glucose drip, and adds a custom cocktail of vitamins and electrolytes to address some of the worst deficiencies. While that works, he sets to work cleaning the worst of the grime from the Morty’s skin. Barber nanites clean and sheer the mess of brown hair, leaving it soft and even. Rick finishes by brushing a coat of petroleum jelly across the boy’s cracked lips. Slipping a candy from his pocket, he places it on the Morty’s tongue after some coaxing and a warning not to swallow it.

With a fond pat on the cheek, Surgeon Rick leaves to attend to other business.

Six hours later B-812 has put on seven pounds, most of it from combating the dehydration of the wilds. His face has lost some of the gaunt and sunken look it had when he came in, and a light flush of color is creeping back into his skin.

After twelve hours, the Morty’s ribs are no longer visible, and his eyes are brighter and more alert, a rosy pink hue starting to fill the rounded curve of his cheeks. The bruises that shadowed across his skin have vanished entirely.

The next morning, Surgeon Rick checks in on his patient and grins with delight.

Morty B-812 has put on twenty-two pounds successfully, and his vitals are strong. The transformation is incredible.

Rick runs his hands over the newly softened curve of Morty’s stomach, grabbing gently at the soft love-handles that are just starting to form around his thin hips.

“M-morning, Rick.”

“How are you feeling, Morty?” Surgeon Rick purrs, not bothering to pull his hands away from his decidedly less than professional groping.

“Good. But-” The teen bites his lip and falls silent.

“What is it, Morty? You can tell me.”

“My- My pants are too tight,” the boy whispers, squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment. The action just draws his soft, pinch-able cheeks high and tight on his face as he blushes.

“Oh yeah, I can see that,” Rick drawls, letting his hands drift further south.

Morty’s thighs are bulging against the seams of his worn jeans now, a constant, squeezing pressure. Pulling out his shears, Rick surveys the strained fabric.

“I don’t want to cut you, Hippocratic hypocrite or not.” Pursing his lips, he runs a hand down to test gently at the strap holding Morty’s hips. “If I let you loose I can get you out of those a grab a new pair from the back.”

The boy’s breathing has gone high and shallow as Surgeon Rick presses his the flat of his palm against the soft bulge forming at his crotch.

“Do you want me to help you out with that, Morty?”

Green eyes shine with a feverish glow as B-812 nods furiously, hands already tugging at his button fly before the last of the straps have fully rescinded into the table.

Surgeon Rick chuckles and takes step back, setting the shears back on the tray just before he’s slammed with a chest full of solid, wriggling Morty. Small hands are pulling at his apron, trying to find some place to get at the skin hidden beneath. Even through the layers of fabric and plastics, Rick can feel the heat radiating off of him in waves, Morty’s breath fogging the transparent material of his sleeve as he buries his face in Rick’s chest.

Poor things, always so desperate for a scrap of affection.

The Morty had only managed to drags his jeans and boxers down to his knees, freeing the aching flesh that’s marked with cruel red lines from the fabric, but hobbling his movement as he collapses against Rick. It only takes a moment to manhandle him chest down onto a lab table, whimpering at the feeling of cold metal beneath his overheated chest. He brings his hands up to grip tightly at the edges of the table, but spreads his ankles as wide as he can for Rick’s approval, even as his knees stay tightly together.

It’s beautiful sight, and Surgeon Rick can’t help but tug off one of his gloves to run his fingers over the frankly luscious curve of the Morty’s ass now, and pinch gently at the soft, wobbling skin of his thighs. Grabbing a tube of lubricant, Rick frees his aching cock and pours a generous dollop onto the fingers of his gloved hand. Slicking himself, he slides beneath the round, pert globes of Morty’s ass and between those baby-soft thighs.

The Morty moans, and clenches his thighs tighter together as Rick’s cock drags across his perineum and presses gently with every thrust against his balls. The medic rewards him with a murmur of praise, bringing his slick hand around and forming a loose fist to let the Morty rut against. His bare hand keeps roaming though, squeezing first at the expanse of Morty’s stomach, then moving up to tease at the soft handful of flesh around his nipple, before returning again to slap at that gorgeous ass and watch the resulting waves of motion.

The Morty comes first of course, with a low, choked off cry. Rick brings his hand up to the boy’s mouth, and watches as he eagerly sucks his own come from the fingers of Rick’s glove. It’s probably the first real thing he’s eaten in days.

When Surgeon Rick finally comes between those creamy thighs, watching his release drip down the Morty’s newly strong legs, it’s full of pride and delight that he had been the one to do this to the boy.

He doesn’t look at all like the emaciated Scruffy Morty he’d dropped off a day before, but L-310 doesn’t ask for dimensional verification. One Morty is a good as any other.

“Jesus, look what you’ve done. He’s a fucking fatass now.” Morty B-812 just looks up at him adoringly, manipulator chip properly reinstalled and calibrated to cheerfully ignore all but the worst abuse. Rolling his eyes, the Rick just mutters and gestures for the Morty to get in line.

“Whatever, we’ll just make you work it off in the ring.”

Surgeon Rick really does not like Rick L-310.

**Author's Note:**

> All L-Ricks are scumbags. Pass it on. 
> 
> (Find me on Tumblr as KlaxAddict)


End file.
